


sometimes, always

by alasse



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasse/pseuds/alasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Different moments of Brian and Justin’s relationship a few years after 513, when they’re back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes, always

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on lj in 2009, [here](http://alasse.livejournal.com/69549.html).

Sometimes, it’s like the first time. 

Justin is downing a second glass of champagne in a half-hearted attempt to drown his nervousness in the bittersweet bubbly drink. 

It’s his first solo show, and he’s absolutely terrified. 

Because, well, he did get good reviews for the previous three shows, but they were all with other artists. He can’t help but wonder if people only thought his stuff was any good because everything else was abysmal. Maybe now that there’s no one else to compare to they’ll tell him he sucks.

“Justin, stop fidgeting,” Liz, his agent, tells him. Justin turns to look at her, and apparently, he looks as nervous as he feels, because she earnestly adds, “Your pieces are amazing, sweetie, you don’t need to worry. Also – the champagne is to get the patrons drunk, not you.”

He rolls his eyes and grabs a third flute from a waiter walking by just to spite her, and Liz glares at him.

“Hey, Taylor!” 

Justin looks away from the glare death-match with Liz and sees Tom, another young artist who Justin met yesterday while hanging his paintings. They talked for a while, then Tom asked Justin out for coffee with a clear intention for more than coffee, and Justin shot him down gently. He’s glad Tom apparently didn’t hold a grudge.

“Hey, Tom, how are you?” he greets him warmly.

“Doing pretty good,” Tom replies with a smile. “Your stuff looks amazing, seriously. I’m jealous.”

“Thanks,” Justin tells him, laughing a bit. 

“I’m wondering about the large canvas over there, the one called _Only time_ ,” Tom starts, pointing to the canvas in question. “It’s seriously intense. I love the colors, the depth. What kind of oils did -” Tom cuts himself off, apparently gaping at something over Justin’s shoulder. “Holy _shit_. Who the hell is _he_?” 

Justin doesn’t actually need to turn around to know who Tom is talking about, but he turns to look regardless.

Brian. 

Brian, clearly coming straight from work, wearing a charcoal grey suit, a white shirt and the deep red tie Justin gave him for his last not-birthday. They’ve taken to calling them not-birthdays, because Brian refuses to celebrate getting old but he apparently doesn’t actually mind getting presents when they come from Armani, Gucci or Prada. Which means only Justin, Ted, Cynthia and Jennifer are allowed to give him presents, of course.

A few people milling around the gallery double-take, follow him with their eyes. He’s magnetic, that way. It’s not just that he’s gorgeous, or that he dresses well. It’s because who he is, how he dares to live, what he fought to become for so many years, it’s all present in every movement of his body, in the way he carries himself. Justin could pick him out from a crowd of thousands, just by the shift of his shoulders when he walks.

It’s been nine years, and, yet, watching Brian from across a room is just like seeing him again from across the street, coming out of Babylon, looking predatory and dangerously beautiful. He still takes Justin’s breath away.

+

Sometimes, it’s goddamned perfect.

“Jesus. Oh, _god_ ,” Justin gasps out.

Brian is slowly kissing and licking his way down Justin’s spine, keeping his legs spread with firm hands. Justin is clutching at the messy covers, burying his head in the pillow one second and looking over his shoulder the next, barely holding it together.

“Just Brian works,” Brian replies, and starts licking around Justin’s hole.

Justin thrums with pleasure, his heart stop-starting. “Shut up, asshole,” he manages to breathe out. “Just fucking lick me open minus the stand up comedy.”

Brian hums, and it goes through Justin’s entire body. It’s hard to believe, how electric and full of need things are between them still, how a single glance passed can make them head for the nearest empty room, how Justin’s body literally _craves_ Brian’s. It’s a hedonistic, mind-blowing addiction, one Justin’s never been able to shake off. Nor does he want to. 

Brian’s hands move from his hips to his ass, spreading Justin wide open, and Brian licks deeper still, his tongue massaging Justin’s perineum mercilessly, making him writhe and pant, making him go beyond pleasure and into a mindless, perfect haze where there is nothing but his body and Brian’s, nothing but Brian’s tongue and his hands, burning contact where they’re touching Justin. It’s all reduced to the sweat trickling sensuously down Justin’s back, the scent of them, strong and overwhelming and amazing, the slip-slide sound of skin on skin. 

Just as he’s about to come, Brian pulls back, and Justin shivers when cold air replaces wet heat. He’s ready to protest when he hears the tell-tale sound of a condom ripping open and Brian’s back soon enough, sinking his cock inch by inch into Justin.

When Brian is completely buried inside, there’s just a second when they both pause, their bodies trembling with excruciating tension, _feeling_ , before Brian starts moving. 

+

Sometimes, it’s frustrating.

“Brian? It’s Linds. Pick up if you’re there, it’s important.” A pause. “Okay, well. Um. Gus is having problems at school. I know it’s only third grade, but he’s getting picked on and. He could really use his father…” The message is interrupted by some bickering, and even though most of it is impossible to understand, Justin can clearly hear Melanie saying _What good will Brian do? He’s never been any kind of father._.

With a sigh, Justin turns the machine off just as Lindsay is asking Brian to go up to Toronto. 

Well, that explains the dark house. Brian is probably upstairs in his study, drinking his weight in whisky. Justin’s going to need all his patience to deal with him right now. This is something Brian will probably never be rid off, one way or another, this self-doubt, this certainty that Gus is better off without him than with him. It’s impossible to have wounds as deep as Brian’s and not be scarred. It’s an uphill battle, one step forward, two steps back, but Justin, Brian himself, can never stop waging it, because Gus does need Brian, and, what is just as true, Brian needs Gus.

He climbs the stairs and heads to their room first, changes out of his jeans because they’re soggy at the bottom, damn the Pittsburgh rain. Once he feels ready, he walks down to corridor to Brian’s study and knocks on the door.

There is no reply, and Justin walks inside, opening the door slowly. 

Like he predicted, Brian is sitting on the chair by the window, staring out at the darkened grounds. There’s a half-empty tumbler of Beam in the small table next to him, and the bottle is obviously decimated. 

“I heard Lindsay’s message,” Justin says. Brian gives a half-grunt of acknowledgement, but doesn’t look around to face Justin. “Are you going to go?” Justin finally asks.

Brian does turn around then, and on his face there’s that utterly nonchalant expression Justin hates so much. 

“No. I’m busy at Kinnetik,” Brian replies.

“You’re always busy at Kinnetik, Brian, but you can go for a couple of days. He’s your _son_ ,” Justin entreats. 

“Yes, well, apparently, I’ve never been much of a father,” Brian shoots back with a careless shrug. He stands up, his back to Justin, and he stretches out for a moment before picking up the whisky tumbler and finishing it off in one go. “I send them money every month, give them what they ask for. They’re the parents, I’m just the cash.”

Justin resists the impulse to cross the room and strangle Brian, or to yell, throw things, fight. He knows that confronting Brian will only result in both of them screaming at each other, saying things they don’t mean.

Instead, he takes one step closer, and clears his throat. “You know that’s not true, Brian. I’ve seen the way Gus looks at you, the way you look at him. I’ve heard him ask after you over the phone. You _are_ his father, one of his parents, and if Lindsay says he needs you, then you should go to him.” The next sentence is hard for Justin to say, but it’s a truth Brian will never stop needing to hear. “You’re not the same person as your dad, Brian. Don’t make the same mistakes.”

With that, Justin turns and leaves the study, making sure to close the door behind him. He’s said what he could, done what he had to. It’s up to Brian, now.

In the morning, Brian tells him to clear his schedule, because they’re flying to Toronto the next day.

 

+

Sometimes, it’s fucking satisfying. 

“So, we’re going to the opera Friday night, at the Met,” Brian says with a grimace, the second he walks into the diner, where he’s meeting Justin for lunch.

Justin looks up from his sketch-book openmouthed.

Brian releases a put-upon sigh. “It’s Theodore’s birthday, Blake has to go away on a retreat or some shit, and Emmett’s busy with a big party, so.” He clears his throat and fidgets in his seat.

Justin bites back his smile and a _You’re such a great friend, Brian_ , because that will only get him a scowl and blue-balls. 

They fly to New York City Thursday night, go out to a club so Brian and Ted can, allegedly, scope out new ideas for Babylon. Ted leaves a bit early and Brian and Justin end up fucking in the backroom, enjoying their audience as usual. Getting fucked by Brian Kinney, in public or private, never gets old.

On Friday, they stay in bed late, do a little shopping and have a light lunch, before getting back to the hotel to get ready. Their tuxes, freshly pressed, are waiting for them – Brian probably asked for them to be ready in the morning.

“You didn’t tell me it was such a black tie affair, Brian,” Justin complains while knotting his bow-tie. 

Brian comes to stand next to him in front of the mirror, and gives him an appraising, heated look. “Well, Plácido himself is singing,” Brian explains. “And you look pretty hot in a tux, Sunshine.”

Justin grins playfully. “How hot?”

“Hot enough that maybe we’ll have to take our own intermission,” Brian replies, his eyes darkened with promise. 

Ted is absolutely happy, going on and on about the opera, what arias he likes best, how he hopes Plácido Domingo will sing them. By the time the opera actually starts, Justin feels as if he’s already heard it.

Still, not only is Plácido singing beautifully, but the accompanying soprano has an amazing voice, and soon enough Justin is lost in their voices. That is, until Brian puts a hand on his thigh, and, inch by tortuous inch, it slides up, up, up, until his fingers graze Justin’s cock.

Justin breaks after five minutes. 

“Brian? Time for our intermission,” he hisses in Brian’s ear, and stands up, praying his hard-on isn’t too noticeable while on his way to the men’s bathroom. 

Brian walks in a minute after him, and, without further ado, shoves Justin into one of the stalls. They’re kissing as if they haven’t kissed for years, not just hours, and, god. Justin could just stay like this forever, his body pressed so close to Brian’s that their breaths are synchronized, that he isn’t sure whether it’s his heartbeat he hears or Brian’s. 

Of course, Brian has more plans than kissing, and he slips a hand between them to unbutton Justin’s pants and his own, before turning Justin around. Justin puts his hands flat on the stall’s partition, hoping nobody decides to walk in now. Brian slips a lubed up finger into his ass a second later, and his worries fly out the window, along with his coherence.

It’s fast, because they’ve both been craving this since they saw each other dressed up. Brian preps Justin quickly, desperately, and Justin pushes back against his fingers, demanding more, demanding that Brian just _fuck_ him, already.

When Brian finally sinks his cock into Justin’s ass, Justin moans, ignoring the burn of the stretch and moving, forcing Brian even deeper. They find their rhythm quickly, and Brian sets a punishing, hard pace, jacking Justin’s cock in counterpoint to his thrusts.

“Not gonna last,” Justin warns, breathing heavily.

He feels Brian smile against the side of his neck, and two thrusts after that, Justin is coming, spurting milky white against the black partition. 

Brian rests his head on Justin’s shoulder for a moment, and then he pulls back, kissing the back of Justin’s neck before slipping his dick out of his ass and disposing of the condom. 

They clean themselves up, trying to go back to at least a semblance of a decent, not just-fucked look, but it’s kind of hopeless in the reduced space of the stall, and Justin opens the door, unable to stifle a laugh when Brian stumbles out.

The last thing he expects is to find Ethan Gold washing his hands, a tinge of red on his cheeks. He hasn’t seen him in eight years, not since he walked out of Ethan’s apartment, hands bleeding from rose thorns. He’s seen his CDs around, though, heard he’s doing well. 

Brian says _Ian_ at the exact same time Justin breathes out, “Ethan”, and there’s no avoiding this then. 

Ethan turns around, a tight, forced smile on his face. 

“Justin,” he greets, making no move to shake Justin’s hand. With some clear reluctance, he looks at Brian, gets out a grudging, “Kinney.”

Brian just nods at him, looking endlessly amused, his lips quirked. He glances at Justin, and, shit, he can tell Brian is seriously enjoying this. He probably loves the fact that Ethan heard them fucking. 

“I better get back, or Theodore will send out a search party. Accountants are oddly paranoid,” Brian finally says. “I’ll see you back inside, Justin. Nice seeing you again, Ian,” he shoots at Ethan, and then he’s gone, long legs taking him out of the bathroom in a second. 

Justin feels all kinds of awkward, obviously, so he steps up to the marble countertop and starts washing his hands, trying to come up with something to say. 

“So, guessing from what I heard, you’re back together with him,” Ethan eventually speaks up. 

“You’d guess correctly,” Justin replies, looking at him across the mirror. He looks alright, more or less the same. Definitely older, a bit chubbier, a lot less the starving artiste. Still, for his apparent success, the tux doesn’t fit him too well. 

“And, what? You’re happy with being the guy he fucks more than once again?” Ethan asks, voice dripping with sarcasm and disapproval. 

Justin raises an eyebrow at the dig. He remembers then that it’s been quite a while, and it feels longer still. He’s been through so much since Ethan, through Stockwell, the posse, cancer and Hollywood. Through a break-up and a bomb, through an almost marriage and a departure. He smiles. “Yeah, I am.”

Ethan’s eyes widen, and then he scowls. “I never understood it, the hold he had on you, on other people.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Yes, you did, Ethan. Of course you did. You even felt that hold yourself – you followed his advice.” 

Ethan doesn’t deny it, he just looks away from Justin, toward the door. When he looks back, he says, “It doesn’t matter, either way. You didn’t really love me, Justin. You were just biding your time to be with him again. Why were you even with me?” he asks.

“Because there are things we can’t ever learn unless we experience them,” Justin replies. “You weren’t a bad guy, Ethan. But, for me, Brian was it since I was seventeen. And nothing will ever change that, nothing really can, no matter how much we both fuck up, how often we fight or break up. It’s just the way things are,” Justin tries to explain. 

Ethan gives him a small nod, and walks out of the bathroom, giving him a half-hearted wave goodbye. Justin leaves soon after, getting back to his seat next to Brian. Ted glares at him.

They see Ethan again, when the opera is over. He’s standing next to his agent, the same guy who approached him all those years ago at the Heifitz. He’s talking to a few people, maybe fans, and Justin can’t shake the feeling that even though he’s doing exactly what he dreamed of all those years ago – making it big, meeting the right people – he looks very, very alone. Successful, yes, but alone. 

He thinks of Brian, of himself. It’s a thin line, the one between sacrificing your life for your dream, or sacrificing your dream for your life. 

+

Sometimes, it ends.

“Brian, why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me about the doctor’s appointment? I had to hear about it from Cynthia, for fuck’s sake!” 

Justin knows he’s shouting, knows his left hand is tightly clenched in a fist. He knows he’s too close to losing it. But he can’t stop himself, because, Jesus Christ. He’s in Kinnetik, watching Brian close off like he was never open at all. He’s back in the loft listening to that message while Brian is in the shower. He’s getting kicked out, movies crashing against the hallway wall. He’s making fucking chicken soup, hands shaking, because, god. God. Brian had cancer, Brian could’ve died. Brian didn’t tell him.

And, six years later, Brian still doesn’t tell him.

They’re standing in the middle of the darkened entry hall, Justin not letting Brian move an inch further into the house until they’ve had this out. 

“Well?” Justin prompts. 

He make out Brian’s expression from the faint light coming from the kitchen – can see him roll his lips into his mouth, can see the tension in his shoulders. This isn’t going to end well. 

“I didn’t think you needed to know,” Brian finally replies, his voice utterly calm, but hiding an edge underneath, as Justin well knows. “It was just a scare, just a glitch in my annual check-up. I went in again today, and it turned out to be nothing.”

“You didn’t think I needed to know?” Justin repeats, incredulous. “How many times do we have to go through this, Brian? I’m your _partner_. I always need to know.” Justin takes a deep breath, tries to rein his emotion in. “Do you have any idea how it felt? Walking into Kinnetik, getting told that you were at the fucking oncologist’s?”

The paralyzing terror of the moment floods him again. Ted looking worried, tight lines of tension around his mouth, Cynthia’s apologetic voice _Oh. I thought you – um. Brian left, he had an emergency appointment with Dr. Johnson_. Justin blinks, shakes himself out of it. 

Brian is silent, he’s retreated into blankness. 

“You can’t do this, Brian,” Justin finally says, quietly, defeated. He really doesn’t want to deal with a wall tonight. “There are two of us, you can’t make decisions like this anymore. I – I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m going to Daphne’s for the night.”

Justin flees. 

No matter how many years pass, their self-defense mechanisms stay the same.

+

Sometimes, it starts.

Two days after the cancer scare, on Friday, Brian picks Justin up from PIFA. He’s working on finishing his degree, because education is never a bad prequel, no matter what he might’ve said in the past. Sometimes he wonders if he inhaled too much Coppertone in Hollywood. 

Justin stayed at Daphne’s for a couple of nights. He knows they both needed time to cool down, and he knows that Brian will, eventually, tell him why he hid the appointment from Justin. Sometimes he wonders, if other couples need this space to deal with how much they _feel_. He wonders if it’s normal, to feel this much for somebody. He usually concludes that wondering is pointless, because he just does. 

“Where are we going?” Justin asks after he hops into the car, not necessarily caring about the answer. 

Brian looks incredibly hot behind the wheel, tie off and shirt unbuttoned, aviators on. Justin would pretty much go with him anywhere.

“Home,” Brian replies simply, and floors it to West Virginia. 

They don’t leave the house for the entire weekend, and they don’t actually ever put on clothes, no more than bed-sheets and bathrobes, that is. They have sex in every room of the house. Justin mixes weird drinks, Brian disapproves silently and breaks into his Johnny Walker Blue Label, they eat junk. 

It’s pretty fucking perfect – exactly what they needed.

Sunday night, Justin is collapsed over Brian, face buried in the side of Brian’s neck, breathing in the sweat, the faint traces of cigarette smoke, the scent that is wholly _Brian_. It hits him all over again, that he could’ve lost this, and a few traitorous, burning tears escape from his tightly shut eyelids. 

“Hey,” Brian says softly. “Hey. ‘M okay. Not going anywhere. Don’t be a twat.”

Justin chuckles helplessly, wishing he had strength enough to punch Brian in the shoulder. A few more tears fall. He tightens his arms around Brian’s shoulders, presses himself even closer. Brian’s hold on him tightens, too. 

“I didn’t want this, Justin. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want you scared again,” Brian finally explains. 

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Justin says, pulling back slightly and looking up. “That’s what I’m here for. To be scared with you.” He stares into the beautiful, ever-enigmatic hazel of Brian’s eyes. After a moment’s contemplation, Justin leans in, kisses Brian, long and languid, and then goes back to where he was, face buried in his favorite spot – the junction between Brian’s neck and shoulder. “To be everything with you,” he whispers. 

+

Always, it’s worth it.


End file.
